A Christmas Story
by Skeiler Stark
Summary: [The Once and Future King/Arthurian Literature] Waaaaaaaaangsttttttttttt at Arthur's court at Christmastime. Written for Not From Stars in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge.


Lo, ye Englishmen, see ye not what a mischief here was? Here was Arthur, King of England, hemming his wife's dress on Christmas morning. Where Guinevere was, Arthur knew not—he sat hemming her dress in peace and waved away anyone that came to disturb him.

The sun shone weakly through the narrow gothic window of Guinevere's private solar and around Arthur the world was nothing but hush and eerie brightness. There were no sounds of voices gossiping in far-flung corridors or the clanking sounds of sheathed swords banging down curving staircases—if people were stirring, they were doing so silently. Outside, the world was blanketed by a hoary English frost. The air hung silent, still and frozen, the distain trees and hills obscured by a mist that caught the sun's weak rays and cast them willy-nilly in all directions, creating a diffused brightness that caused the thick frost to shimmer dully instead of blind. The total lack of sound did not register with Arthur, who had become hard of hearing of last and who never really took notice of the noise around him anyway. His mind was too full of memories and dreams to allow him to realise what was going on in the real world. Perhaps that was part of the problem.

Arthur made a knot and used a small knife to cut the thread. The cold had long crept up through his boots into his toes, but as he admired his handiwork he did not think of that. His only thought was on the straightness of his stitching, and only the most sycophantic or blind of courtiers could call Arthur's stitches straight. He strained his ageing brain to remember how he had sewed Kay's jupons—although, on reflection, he could remember being scolded by Sir Ector for the uselessness of his stitching. Not that the jupons Arthur sewed had ever been seen by anyone more illustrious than the villagers and odd knight errant—when it had mattered, the cook had always seen to Kay's jupons.

Why Guinevere had entrusted him with the hemming of a dress she was to wear this eve before the whole court at the Christmas feast, Arthur did not know. Her ladies-in-waiting had stood quietly while Guinevere fussed and cried and stamped her feet because her dress was too long until finally Arthur had taken her in his arms and looked into her greying blue eyes and promised to fix everything.

As Arthur struggled to thread the needle anew, Guinevere stood silent and still at Lancelot's window and looked out at England with vacant eyes. She could not see the ground for the thick frosty mist that hung on the walls of Camelot like a translucent cloak—Lancelot's room was in the highest tower and bare of all but a pallet for a bed and the stand on which hung his brilliant, gleaming armour. His own personal self-imposed exile, further away from the hall and court lodgings than the lowest stable-hands. From this bitter angle, Guinevere did not notice the unnatural stillness inspired by the frost—it was always quiet here.

Lancelot stood at the other side of the window and watched Guinevere watching the empty mists. They did not speak and she did not look at him. She did not need to. They were thinking the same thing.

What could they give Arthur for Christmas?

The best gift that they could give him was the only one they could not give and Lancelot felt the guilt of betraying his king and best friend more keenly now than at any other time of the year.

'Gwen', Lancelot whispered, but she shook her head and they resumed their silence. They were waiting for inspiration.

Mordred was also waiting, but with a very different purpose. He was standing just beyond the turn in the stair that led upwards from Lancelot's door toward the tower parapet. He was waiting to watch Guinevere leave, as he had so often so many times before. He wanted to watch her leave her lover—needed to see as much of the betrayal as he could, again and again. And again and again he had smiled wickedly to himself to see her go.

And again and again a still more silent and unseen figure watching Mordred watching Guinevere. Britomart had no love for the king's wife but she, like every other knight, was sworn to protect Guinevere and today that meant making sure there would be no chalices of mulled wine only faithful wives could drink from or crackers only faithful wives could break.

The door of Lancelot's room opened and closed and Guinevere descended the stair. Britomart let her go past where she was waiting, and then stepped out behind her. They were much the same height and shape, and Britomart hoped to mislead Mordred. She stopped at the bottom of the stair while Guinevere crossed the courtyard, then made sure that Mordred followed her another way towards the west wing. Britomart doubled back once inside and took a little-used turning to wend her way into a dilapidated corner of the castle a snob like Mordred would not recognize.

She held in her hand two weighty iron keys and used them with skill to make sure Mordred found himself locked in a small, unused hall out of the way of listening ears by passing through the hall and locking the far door before running around to the front and locking that as well. She stood outside the door for a moment and listened to Mordred trying the handle—he pulled frantically at the catch but the heavy lock would not budge.

It was late afternoon and the court was finally rousing under the influence of warms fires and bright orches when Britomart entered Guinevere's solar. Arthur was sitting motionless with the dress across his lap. He was asleep. Britomart knelt next to him and when she took one of Arthur's hands he awoke.

'Where's Gwen?' he asked.

'On her way,' Britomart replied.

Arthur smiled at her and replied, 'You had better go get ready, Brit. I want both my lovely ladies at the high table tonight, my friend.'

'I am ready,' Britomart replied and pointed to her green jupon and polished spurs.

Arthur laughed. 'I thought you would wear a dress, for once.'

'Never,' laughed a merry voice, and the pair turned to see Guinevere standing in the doorway, with Lancelot behind her. They came forward and the ill-fated foursome stood together in fraught peace.


End file.
